


Joyeux Noël

by mellyb6



Series: It's snowing in Paris [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Being Cheesy, Chocolate, Christmas, Christmas drinking, Cuddling with your boyfriend, Food, M/M, Opening Christmas presents, Romantic fools, Snow, puppy, who loves the other more
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-03 09:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 13,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5285738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyb6/pseuds/mellyb6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas is Aramis's favourite holiday. Porthos is Aramis's favourite person. The perfect combination at a perfect time of the year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Christmas night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



> This is my first attempt at writing Portamis so cut me some slack. It's also super cheesy, but I won't apologize for it. It's Christmas after all! 
> 
> This is written in particular for @CanadianGarrison *smooches*

One, two, three...

 

There's a regular pattern weaving its way through Porthos' slumber. He turns his head the other way, buries his face in the pillow.

 

One, two, three, four...

 

Porthos clutches the bedcover, retreats deeper into the warmth of the blanket. It's too soft and too comfortable and it's definitely too early to wake up.

 

One, two, three, four, five......Nothing for a while.

 

Porthos relaxes, sighs, stretches and gropes the space next to him. Nothing. It's still warm, but cooling fast.

 

One, two, three, four...

 

Porthos growns, the sound muffled by the fort he has erected on top of his body. He shakes his legs, rolls on his side, carefully peers out and opens one eye.

 

It's not as bright as he imagined in the room. There's only one small bedside lamp glowing in the dark.

 

One, two, three, four, five...

 

“What are you doing?” he mumbles, not sure that his words can be heard correctly. He refuses to let go of the blanket and his nose as well as his mouth are still hidden.

 

There's one chuckle coming from the window, but no real answer.

 

One, two, three, four...

 

“Come back to bed. It's....dammit, Aramis! It's 3 in the morning!” Porthos finally throws the bedcover to the end of the bed, and shivers. He doesn't wear a pajama top and it's colder in their bedroom than it was when he was comfortable in their bed.

 

Aramis eventually turns around, and even with the light dimmed, Porthos can tell he's grinning. He does not look tired or drowsy. How long has he been awake?

 

All of a sudden, Aramis darts to the bed, jumps on it, and croutches so that his face is so close to Porthos's their noses bump.

 

“It's snowing!”

 

Porthos groans, but there's a smile stretching on his lips. Even in the middle of the night, even if he's been awoken by his boyfriend acting like a kid, he cannot be angry with him. Not when Aramis sounds so delighted.

 

“Is it now?” Porthos rubs his eyes, aware that there's no going back to sleep now. Not in the near future anyway. When he can finally focus, Aramis is still looking at him, wild curls framing his face. He's wearing one of Porthos's sweaters, too big for him.

 

“Come and see!”

 

“No need for that. I trust you.” As much as he loves to make his boyfriend happy, the idea of actually getting up is not appealing at all.

 

“But it might be gone by morning,” Aramis sounds disappointed, so when Porthos gives no sign of moving, he stands up anyway and goes back to the window.

 

“It's December,” Porthos reminds him. “It'll snow again soon, I'm sure.”

 

“Well, yes, but it's Christmas night.”

 

And now that sleep is slipping away, Porthos remembers. He remembers accompanying Aramis to church for Christmas Eve Service as they do every year Porthos would not mind spending the entire evening just the two of them in their apartment but it's important for Aramis.

 

He remembers eating a little too much afterwards, drinking perhaps a little too much. He remembers wrestling his boyfriend to the floor so he would not open his presents before Christmas morning.

 

He remembers giggles and tickles, and laughter and squeals, because Aramis turns into an actual child when he is happy, and Christmas is his favourite holiday. Given that Porthos is his favourite person, the two together made for a perfect evening.

 

Porthos sits up in bed as he remembers kisses and wandering hands and now he remembers where his pajama top is. Somewhere in the Christmas tree, if they haven't knocked it over.

 

One, two, three, four, five....

 

Aramis is still tapping on the window every time a snowflake falls by when Porthos eventually decides that joining him is worth it. He's by his side in a flash, arms sneaking around his waist from behind, and hugging him. Aramis stops his snow-counting and sinks into the warmth embrace.

 

“Merry Christmas,” Porthos whispers, his lips leaving a trace on Aramis's neck. He sighs, clutches the two hands which found their way underneath the sweater he's wearing. They're soft against his stomach, but he shivers anyway.

 

They remain like this for a while, watching snow fall on the city, leaving a white cover on the rooftops. It's likely to melt by morning, they live in a big city after all, it's never cold enough. But for now, it's peaceful and almost magical and Aramis has a myriad of cheesy things swirling in his mind that he could say, but he doesn't.

 

Porthos wouldn't mind. Porthos never minds. Porthos would smile, chuckle, call him a foolish romantic, but he would love it anyway.

 

Porthos can feel Aramis's body relax against his own, relax even more than it was before. His curly hair tickles Porthos's bare shoulder. His breathing is steady, so much that after long minutes of silent contemplation, Porthos wonders if his boyfriend hasn't fallen asleep.

 

“You still with me?” he asks, his voice hoarse, his throat dry from sleep and lack of water. There's only a nod to confirm. Aramis's answer comes seconds later.

 

“Always.”

 

“You can go back to bed if you want. I didn't want to wake you up,” he adds after while. But his fingers clutch Porthos's forearm, telling a different story. He's sleepy, too, he realizes, but snow falling on Paris is a pretty sight which does not happen often enough.

 

“I'm good holding you.”

 

“Do you think it's snowing in the countryside, too?”

 

“Who knows? For Athos's sake, I hope it's not. He's going to be cranky enough as it is without the driving hazard it could trigger.”

 

Aramis snorts.

 

“I bet he'd love having the excuse of building a snowman to avoid spending more time with his family.”

 

It's Porthos's turn to snigger.

 

“Athos building a snowman? That's something I'd like to see!”

 

Aramis turns around in his arms, breaking the embrace only to sink deeper onto Porthos's body. He slides his hands up his arms until he is all but clinging to his neck. They're both smiling, sleepy. Aramis looks at him mischievously and Porthos cocks his head.

 

“Do _you_ want to build a snowman?”

 

Porthos rolls his eyes. Aramis should not be allowed to work with children. Especially children who are crazy about Disney movies and won't watch anything else.

 

Aramis kisses him quickly. One, two, three, four times.

 

“Shut up, Prince Charming.”

 

One, two, three, four kisses.

 

One, two, three, four steps backwards and they stumble on the bed.

 


	2. Christmas (early) morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for breakfast.

They live in a small appartment (it's Paris after all) so Porthos is trying to make as little noise as he can. It's not as if it was really early in the morning. It's past nine after all, but Aramis and his snow-watching and subsequent cuddling left them awake for a couple more hours. He's still sleeping like a baby. 

Porthos surveys the sorry excuse of a living room slash kitchen slash hallway that they rent and ponders making some breakfast for later. The smell might wake up the starving elf in his bed. 

There's an empty bottle of champagne on the counter, two empty plastic cups and leftover Yule log and cold pizza on the floor by the couch. Dirty plates and dirty cutlery and Porthos sighs loudly but picks everything up anyway. 

Aramis's mother would be ashamed to know what they had for dinner on Christmas Eve, so it might be a good thing that they cannot visit them today. Cooking breakfast is a way to at least redeem himself a little in her eyes. Because Porthos knows that she's bound to call sometime during the day and Aramis can never shut up when he talks to his mom. She'll know about the pizza and the chips. 

He puts some music on, deciding that it's a nicer way of waking Aramis up than jumping on the bed and yelling that he wants to open his presents. The memory of their previous Christmas comes back to the fore and Porthos grins, remembering that he did promise his boyfriend he'd have his revenge. It was a horrendous way to wake up, especially as they were sleeping in the room next to Aramis's parents. Another time perhaps. Another year. Another Christmas. He's not planning on letting Aramis go. Ever. 

Porthos is done with cutting the oranges, feeling satisfied that Louisa will be proud of him for feeding her son some fruit. He is starting the French toast when there's a loud groan from the bedroom, followed by a thud. He turns the music a little bit louder and returns to his eggs. 

There's padding, shuffling in his direction until it stops and Aramis rests his head against his arm. He's almost lost in the giant bedcover he carries around his shoulders like a cape. His hair is a mess and he rubs his eyes with one hand, the other keeping his precarious clothing in place. 

“I hope you're wearing something underneath that,” is Porthos's greeting. 

“Of course I am. What are you making?” He can hear the sleep dripping from Aramis's mouth.

“Good. I don't want to have to drag you to the doctor. French toast. You hungry?”

Aramis shrugs, considers the question and then tip-toes to kiss Porthos's cheek. 

“Thank you. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas again.” Porthos cannot help but smile even more when he turns slightly so that he can reach Aramis's lips and have a proper good morning kiss. It takes only a few seconds for Aramis to remember he just woke up and to withdraw. Or try to. Porthos keeps a firm hold on his hip, through the layers of fluffy material. 

“But I stink.”

“So do I.”

“You don't!” Aramis sounds offended.  
“Sure, I do, but it doesn't matter. You love me anyway.”

“Absolutely.”

“And so do I.” Aramis opens his sleepy eyes at this, smiles like a little kid. And yawns. “Why don't you go sit down while I finish this, sleepy head?”

“Presents?”

“After these are done. I promise.”

Satisfied, Aramis attempts to hop on a stool and proceeds to carefully watch his boyfriend's every move. 

“It's still snowing, by the way,” Porthos informs him. 

“Is it?” There's a crash, the stool is on the ground and Aramis is at the window. “That's great! Hey! There are kids making snowballs down there. Do you think....”

“I thought you wanted presents? And breakfast?”

“After?”

“That was the plan, yeah.”

And out of the blue, Aramis is crushing Porthos in a hug, the bedcover forgotten in the middle of the appartment to reveal the same sweater he was wearing during the night. He squeezes with all his strength as if he wanted their bodies to fuse and make one. 

“You're amazing.”

“Hardly. But thank you for the compliment.”

“You are though.” Aramis disentangle himself and stands in the small space they use as a kitchen, looking more awake than he was a minute before and extremely serious. “You're making all of this, elaborate breakfast and all, and you've planned so much and....”

“I didn't plan the snow, 'Mis.”

“I'm aware but, you knew. And I'm not doing anything. I'm just looking at you working. I even made you go to church last night.” He almost looks ashamed. Porthos stops what he is doing entirely to come closer and make Aramis look him in the eye.

“Hey. I wouldn't go to church with you if I was completely averse to it. You know that. You're doing everything I need you to do by being here. You've cancelled all your plans with your family when I got word that I would be on call for the holidays. That's more than enough. Besides, French toast is a piece of cake.”

“It doesn't look like it,” Aramis sounds doubtful as he takes a good look at the kitchen counter and the ingredients scattered on it. Then his face lights up. “I'll help! What should I do?”

“You can cut the bread.”  
Aramis happily grabs the knife and they work side by side for a few minutes. After a while, he canno help but set the music volume louder, and Christmas music fills the small appartment. They often bump into each other. Porthos is actually doing it on purpose, glad to see Aramis so excited and delighted to help. 

Shoulder against shoulder, a hand on a hip to silently request Aramis to move out of the way, a kiss on the cheek to swipe away the egg mixture which found its way there, Aramis's fingers in his mouth so he can clean sugar off them. A wink. 

When there's a pile of French toast on a plate and that Porthos is setting orange juice on the counter, Aramis looks him dead in the eye, all playfulness gone. 

“And Porthos?”

“Yeah?”

“You're my family, too.”

Cold breakfast is the best sort of breakfast.


	3. Christmas (late) morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to open presents.

The music has changed. You can only listen to Michael Bublé for so long before it gets on your nerves. Even if it's Christmas. Aramis has introduced Porthos to Imagine Dragons and he must say, ever since they went to see the concert in early November, he's liking it.

 

Aramis loves going to concerts, especially since it helps relieve the tension of spending entire days working with small children, which often leaves him drained and exhausted. Porthos doesn't have as many free nights as his boyfriend, but they make it work. Aramis hasn't burnt the place down with his precarious cooking yet, a fact Porthos is thankful for.

 

The songs they are listening to now are not exactly soothing but it doesn't matter because they are crowded in front of the small Christmas tree, in the small empty space left in the tiny living room. Porthos is reading the desperate but hilarious texts he's been getting from Athos for hours while Aramis hungrily finishes the French toast. He cleans his sticky fingers on his clothing before realizing that what he's wearing doesn't belong to him. He smiles sheepily at Porthos to be forgiven.

 

“You've been wearing it for days. It's going in the washer anyway. Now, where was I?”

 

“He's complaining that dinner is taking forever,” Aramis reminds him.

 

“Ah yes. There's a picture attached, look.” He leans closer to Porthos to get a better look at the screen. There is a lot of empty wine bottles on a table and the caption _Kill me now, I finished the wine_ at the bottom. It was clearly sent last night, but they were both too busy to focus on anything else than themselves.

 

“Did he pass out after that?”

 

“Doesn't seem like it. There's another text. From around one a.m.” Porthos chuckles before reading it out loud. “ _My mother wants me to go church with them in the morning. I want to die._ He sent a picture of a knife this time.”

 

“Don't you think we should call him and make sure he doesn't commit murder or suicide?”

 

They haven't been dating for that long, less than two years actually. Even though Aramis really likes Athos, and not only because he is Porthos's best friend, it still frightens him sometimes how he can complain about his family and his life and then drink himself to oblivion. It is quite scary.

 

Porthos dismisses the idea.

 

“No need to. It happens every year. He'll probably wake up too late for church. See? It was the last text he sent. He must be passed out.” Aramis doesn't like the carelessness Porthos displays because it bothers him that Athos seems so unhappy and uncomfortable with his family. Aramis has never had this type of problems and he's not used to it.

 

“There, I'll send him a text to make sure he's still alive,” Porthos decides when he sees the concern in his boyfriend's eyes. “And we'll call him tonight if he hasn't given signs of life by then.”

 

“Thank you.” Aramis tilts his head up to kiss Porthos's lips.

 

“He's the one who should thank _you_. You're a great friend.”

 

“Athos means a lot to you. Besides, nobody should be allowed to be so miserable for Christmas.”

 

“Don't be upset, Mister H. He'll get round to it and will laugh it off as soon as he's back in the city. And if you're lucky, it'll even be the perfect time to convince him to do something as ridiculous as building snowmen.”

 

“Snowmen are not ridiculous!” Aramis looks deeply offended until Porthos winks and he realizes he's being played, as is often the case. He heaves a displeased sigh. “Perhaps I should not give you your awesome present.”

 

A second later, he's pinned to the floor, the remainder of his food scattering on the duvet and he's all but crushed by Porthos.

 

“I want my present,” he growls in his ear and Aramis miserably fails at trying to stay mad at him. He shivers instead.

 

“Then get off me, you big monster.” For all the muscles he's made of, the tremendous strength he demonstrates and the threatening demeanour he sometimes assumes, Aramis knows Porthos's main weakness. A few tickles in the right places and he concedes defeat.

 

He's short of breath as he stares at the beaming and satisfied Aramis who replaces the concerned one from earlier. At least he took his mind of Athos, if only for a few moments. Porthos is aware that Aramis is still coming to terms with his relation with his best friend and Athos' conflicted life. He couldn't more blessed to have a boyfriend who cares and worries as much as Aramis does.

 

“All right. This one isn't your real present but I thought you'd like it.” Aramis sounds unsure as he hands over a large rectangle gift perfectly wrapped. He already wanted to gift it to Porthos last Christmas but they had only been going out for a few months then. They're been through a lot since, they moved in together (well, Aramis moved in with Porthos anyway) and all. He's certain it won't be as ridiculous now.

 

Porthos is grinning like an idiot as soon as the wrapping paper is torn and the calendar revealed.

 

“Are you sure you bought this for me or for yourself?”

 

“For the both of us?” Porthos laughs and loses no time tearing the plastic to flip through the pages. “Do you like it?”

 

“Do I like it? Hell, yeah. You got me a calendar with practically naked firemen! That's perfect.”

 

Aramis echoes his grin as he crowds closer to catch a glimpse of the glossy pictures.

 

“Perhaps you know some of them.”

 

“God, I hope not. That'd be embarrassing.” Porthos crunches his nose, thinking about seeing any of his co-workers in the calendar. But as far as he can recall, no one from his fire station or the ones in the nearest _arrondissements_ took part in it this year. 

 

“Yes, probably. Hey! Maybe one day you'll be in it yourself. I bet their sales would skyrocket!”

 

“Just think about all the ladies who would fantasize about my perfect and fabulous body,” Porthos teases him, setting the gift on the couch.

 

“On second thoughts, I'd rather you not do it.”

“Are you jealous now?” Porthos smiles cheekily because he knows Aramis is clingy and sometimes can turn quite possessive.

 

“I don't want to share you with anyone,” he replies, defiant.

 

“And you don't have to, sugar plum. Not in that way, I promise.” Aramis gets a pat on his thigh for his troubles and his pouts quickly dissolves as he grabs the envelope Porthos hands him. Aramis loses no time opening it and going through the content. His smile gets bigger and bigger the more he reads.

 

“Did you get this for me or for yourself?”

 

“For the both of us,” Porthos replies, stealing his words from earlier. Aramis scrambles to cling to his neck, burying his face in Porthos' neck and squeezing as hard as he can. “Since you couldn't get a refund on the plane tickets because it was on such short notice, I figured next time we'll go see your parents, we'd better make a proper vacation out of it.”

 

“Thank you, Porthos. You're the best.” For a second, it sounds like he's actually crying. It would be a surprise, considering that for the amount of teasing, pouting, whining that he does, he is an expert at hiding his real emotions. It took Porthos weeks after they first met to manage to understand a least a little bit what was going on inside his head.

 

“It's the hotel you were talking about with Constance the other day. The one with the spa and everything.”

 

“I know. I've always wanted to stay there. When are we going?”

 

“Your next school break? You get an awful lot of those.”

 

But this time, Aramis is fully aware that Porthos is teasing and he stopped replying to these particular jokes a long time ago. Instead, it dawns on him that the other gift he bought for his boyfriend, even if it's better than a sexy calendar, it will never equal what he's just been offered.

 

He looks embarassed when he eventually disentangles himself and reaches for the other present.

 

“It's nothing as good as yours, but here.”

 

“What did I tell you earlier? It doesn't matter what you get me because you're here. So if you apologize once more, I'll wrestle you and you know I'll win.”

 

“I wouldn't mind.” Aramis winks, his cheeks still flushed.

 

“Shut up, idiot. Give me that.”

 

There's one second of hesitation as Aramis fiddles with the white ribbon before he sets the present to the side.

 

“I'm sorry, it's a ridicu....” He was expecting it, but his sentence is drowned in a yelp as Porthos collapses on him, topples the Christmas tree to the floor, ornaments tinkling.

 

Warm lips descend on a squirmish Aramis until he relaxes, even if he's still laughing.

 

“You don't listen to instructions very well, Mister.”

 

“I'm on a school break,” Aramis reminds him, welcoming the pressure and the heat and the kisses and the endless proof of affection his boyfriend gives him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -There really is a Firefighters Sexy calendar. Look it up on Amazon (Calendrier des pompiers 2016).


	4. Christmas afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A phone call to Spain

Porthos is stretched on the couch, one eye always going back to the window and the endless white stuff falling from the sky. It has only stopped for a couple of hours in the morning before starting again. If he was being pessimistic, he'd say the snow is falling more steadily now. He does not like it. He does not like the consequences it could have for him and his time with Aramis. His phone hasn't rung yet, but you can never know how many people are going to slip on a patch of ice, or how many people will get in car accidents during the night.

 

He tries to focus on other, more important and enjoyable things happening in the warmth of the appartment. He is eating the chocolates his father sent him. It's about the only time of the year they share any form of communication: a Christmas card (generic and only a couple of meaningless words on it) and a box of chocolates. At least the rich bastard sends the expensive stuff, some filled with liquor that Porthos always sets aside for Athos.

 

The box is almost empty by now, but he cannot worry about the calories because it's Christmas and he feels so cosy, so drowsy that he could fall asleep right there in the middle of the afternoon. Aramis's warm voice is the only thing keeping him awake. The Spanish sounds like a lullaby though, and it flows effortlessly around him. It feels like his boyfriend is actually singing, then laughing, and if Porthos closes his eyes (which he does for a minute), he can picture the way Aramis's mother must be on her side of the line, all bright smile and gentle words.

 

“ _But it was so cold in the church, Mama. I swear, it's like...”_

 

“ _We don't swear, sweetheart.”_

 

“ _Right, sorry.”_ Aramis bites his lip, curses in his head then goes on with his explanation. _“But really, I felt like my fingers were going to freeze.”_

 

“ _Did you leave money for collection, then?”_

 

“ _....Of course!”_ He remembers the 2€ coin he dropped in the plate going through the pews, and thanks God his mother cannot see his blush. _“But still.”_

 

“ _My poor baby,”_ his mother cooes, but he can hear the smile in her voice, the way she's trying not to make fun of him. The phone must be on speaker because right after that, he hears his father's booming laughter. _He_ is not ashamed to make fun of his son.

 

“ _We had a lovely time here last night. Your sister is napping so I'll make sure she calls you back when they all wake up. Are you staying in today?”_

 

“ _We'll probably go outside soon. It's snowing!!!!”_ Aramis happily skips to the window, checking that everything hasn't melted in the last five minutes. Porthos chuckles. He may not understand a lot of Spanish, Aramis's attitudes and reactions know no linguistic boundaries.

 

He smiles at Porthos and comes to sit at the foot of the couch. He reaches for a chocolate, chews it loudly and receives what his boyfriend can only guess is a reprimand from his mother.

 

“ _You'll never guess what Porthos just gave me, Mama!”_ Aramis remembers suddenly, his voice full of excitement. He's been looking so much at the leaflet enclosed with his gift that it's all crumbled. Thank God for websites, Porthos thinks.

 

“ _Wouldn't it be a couple of nights in that fancy hotel in town you've been dreaming of since you were a child?_ ”

Aramis is speechless for a few seconds, turns around too fast, hits his head against the couch, and slaps Porthos's thigh.

 

“Oi! What did I do?”

 

“You told my mom about the hotel?”

 

“Absolutely! She was a great help to make it the most perfect gift for you.”

 

Aramis's face moves from offended to stupidly in love in a flash. He smiles ridiculously wide, and seems to have forgotten he's having a conversation with people in Spain as he rises from the floor and gives Porthos a very long and deep kiss.

 

“I love you. Even when you keep secrets from me.”

 

“It was for your own good.” Porthos kissed him back, and he is actually thinking about pulling him down on the couch with him. It must be a medical condition to not be able to spend more than ten minutes without touching your boyfriend in any way. And so far today, they are both suffering from it.

 

“I know. Thank you.”

 

“You deserve it.” Porthos braces himself for Aramis's denial which inevitably arrives. He scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Maybe it'll stop your whining for a week or two. It'll be a nice break from usual.” Now, Aramis has a genuine reason to be offended. Porthos lessens the blow with a dazzling smile and a kiss on his cheek.

 

“Your mom's waiting,” he reminds Aramis.

 

“Oh, right!”

 

And he watches him scramble to his feet and put the phone back to his ear. He's apologizing, that much Porthos understands. After, the conversation is too fast for him to understand more than fragments. From his tone of voice, he can tell Aramis is asking about the rest of his family, complaining about work, sharing mistakes his pupils make and laughing until he's crying.

 

Just by watching and listening, Porthos can also pinpoint the exact moment Aramis's mother gives the phone to his dad. It's a subtle change, yet, Aramis's voice becomes less childish and more serious. He stops walking all over the place. Instead, he sits on a stool by the kitchen counter, plays with a forgotten fork and does not move again until after he's hung up.

 

That conversation is quicker, less intense, almost too formal. Porthos dislikes it, he doesn't like the way Aramis frowns at the phone once the line has gone silent. He knows Aramis loves his father and the feeling is mutual. His son made choices he didn't approve, he's still not approving and for once, Aramis is relieved he does not live closer to home and he cannot feel obligated to visit as often as possible.

 

Empty wrappers fall on the carpet as Porthos discards the blanket and starts to stand up. Aramis is near him faster, the frown gone. It's better to focus on what he has right now, on night falling even if it's not 4 in the afternoon, on Chritsmas lights turned on inside the living room and Christmas lights outside in the street. And his boyfriend who worries too much, who worries more for his well-being than for himself.

“What was that for this time?” Porthos asks as Aramis leans over the back of the couch and kisses his cheek.

 

“My mom says hi. And for you to have a happy Christmas, and to eat proper food tonight.” Porthos snorts.

 

“She didn't think pizza was a proper Christmas meal?”

 

“What do you think? You were with us last Christmas, remember?”

 

Aramis tightens his arms around Porthos's shoulders, puts his chin in the crook of his neck. It makes him all fuzzy to remember the previous December, when Porthos travelled down to Spain to meet his family. How hesitant he was, how hesitant Aramis was, to introduce his new boyfriend, someone he'd known for only five months. Yet someone he trusted completely and whole-heartedly, a feeling which sometimes still leaves him light-headed with happiness.

 

Someone everyone accepted and adopted so easily, as easily as it was for Aramis to let Porthos in.

 

Porthos feeling out of place for a moment until Aramis's mother reached out and hugged him, kissed both of his cheeks and welcomes him home as if it was where he belonged. Porthos had been stunned.

 

His nephew and his niece trying to communicate with the giant Frenchman and his awkward Spanish, stars in their eyes when they were told he was a fireman. And Porthos having to play with a toy firetruck for the rest of the evening.

 

His sister, winking and hugging him, and sharing dirty jokes to make her younger brother blush.

 

His father, a man who didn't speak a lot, shaking Porthos's hand after eyeing him from head to toe, lingering on the way Aramis's hand was firmly clasped in his. A couple of greetings in French and that was it. He might not have approved, he knew better than to voic it out loud. It was Christmas after all and what his wife wanted didn't involve another endless and meaningless conversation about their son's choices.

 

Porthos's first time with Aramis's family, awkward and natural at once. The best Christmas he had ever had so far. The closest he ever had to a family gathering. All of this thanks to the pixie he called his boyfriend.

 

Porthos nods, memories flooding his brain as well. And the way his stomach grumbles as the memory of the food Louisa prepared should be illegal. Especially after he had a ton of chocolate.

 


	5. Christmas (late) afternoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A walk in Paris

It's dark outside. It's not even six pm. It's cold. It's not snowing anymore, but it's still windy and the freezing blasts bite at Porthos's cheeks. He's all bundled up in his coat, scarf around his neck, hat on head and hands in his gloves. But he feels like his toes are starting to turn to icicles in his boots.

 

Aramis is almost glued to his side, his arm hooked with Porthos' and even if he must be shivering walking in the brisk air, he doesn't show it at all. Actually, he's not showing a lot of himself. His face is almost disappearing beneath the huge hat and the huge scarf his parents sent him as gifts. The only thing Porthos can properly see is Aramis's nose, slowly turning red.

 

It's refreshing to be outside in the street after spending long hours inside. It's nice to breathe some fresh air even if it stings. There's a park near their apartment and it's usually a short stroll to get there. The streets aren't empty (they're never empty), but everyone is walking with their head down, going so fast, eager to return inside.

 

Everyone but Aramis who stops every few steps to look at a shop window or at street decorations that he has seen a dozen times before. Porthos is sure he must tell him when he wants to stop but he cannot hear anything with the ton of wool his boyfriend's face is enclosed in. The first couple of times, it's only when he seems to be dragging a dead weight that he stops. After a while, he's the one stopping, anticipating Aramis's needs.

 

Porthos is certain it's a need. Aramis is attracted to all things bright and cheerful and it doesn't matter if he ends up sick because of it. It will take them forever to reach the park, assess the quality of the snow, the _amount_ of snow, and God knows what his boyfriend will want to do after. Porthos sees hot chocolate in his future, clothes drying on the radiator.

 

Aramis tries to say something but it's only a muffled sound. Porthos pushes his scarf down.

 

“What was that?”

 

“It's a bit cold.” His words get lost in a cloud of mist, but he flashes his perfect white teeth and Porthos can only roll his eyes. It must be below zero.

 

“Yeah, _a bit_.” He puts Aramis's scarf back in place after giving him a peck on the lips. Aramis keeps on clinging to his arm, his cheek cushioned on it, but in no hurry at all. After a couple of minutes, he's the one who pushes his scarf down to talk properly.

 

“It feels like it's been ages since it's snowed for Christmas.”

 

“It does.”

 

“It's great! I'm loving it!” And he promptly slides on the icy sidewalk, only avoiding a complete fall thanks to Porthos's pure strength. He's giggling like an idiot when they make eye contact.

 

“Still loving it?”

 

“Absolutely!”

 

“Well, try to love it by staying up right. You don't want to spend the night at the hospital.” Out of habit, Porthos checks his phone, makes sure there are no missed calls. There's none. Until he puts it back in his pocket and feels it vibrate.

 

His heart sinks but when he sees Athos's name on the screen, he breathes out an icy and relieved breath.

 

“Hey! So you survived....”

 

“ _It's snowing!”_ Athos cuts him off. Porthos can _hear_ the disgust and rage and hatred.

 

“Yeah, it's snowing in the city, too.”

 

“Is it Athos?” Aramis asks. Porthos nods. “Say Merry Christmas for me!” Porthos nods again but never gets the chance to pass the greeting.

 

“ _I'll never make it home with this snow. It's a nightmare!”_

 

“Is it snowing that bad? Because here it's not so bad. I don't think it'll last very long.” Porthos sees Aramis pout out of the corner of his eye so he squeezes his waist to comfort him.

 

“ _No, it's nothing, I'm sure, but there's this bloody idiot in front of me who...”_

 

“Are you driving?” It's Porthos's time to cut him off.

 

“ _I'm_ trying _! If only that guy would....”_

 

The line goes silent as Porthos ends the call.

 

“Did you hang up on him?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“He'll be pissed. Even more than he seems to be.”

 

“At least he'll be alive.”

 

His phone rings a couple more times, but he ignores it every time he sees it's Athos. Instead he sends a text, tells him to stop making calls while driving, and to stop calling because _work_ could _call_ and then he'd miss it and that would be terrible because people might die if he isn't able to be there to help them. Athos replies with a series of emojis Porthos interprets as a way to imply he's a terrible bore.

 

He ignores it as well because after such a journey they've finally reached the park and the gigantic Christmas tree is lit and snow is settling on the benches, on the chairs, on the dying grass and the bushes. It's very powdery, not enough to build anything out of it. Yet enough to make small snowballs as a couple of children demonstrate in front of them.

 

There's a shriek as one of them receives one right on his nose and melting snow drips down his neck.

 

“I don't see what the big deal is. It's not so cold, is it?” Porthos gathers some snow from a nearby bench, doesn't try to form a ball with it, and simply squashes it against Aramis's face. There's an even bigger shriek as he startles, jumps to the side and proceeds to shake his head. Snowflakes fall to the ground.

 

“What....what...how...why...” He licks his lips, wet and colder than before. Porthos is flashing him a bright smile that Aramis answers with a string of Spanish curse words.

 

“Wow! Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”

 

“I won't be kissing you anytime soon either!” Porthos only laughs, but still takes a step backwards as Aramis frantically looks around to find some suitable snow for his revenge. The surprise effect gone, it only hits the arm Porthos raised to protect his eyes.

 

“You tried, that's what's important,” he says very seriously and gathers both of Aramis's hands in his own to prevent any further attempt at retaliation. “For what it's worth, you looked very cute, all offended and shocked that you were.”

 

He kisses Aramis's lips lightly to warm them up and he can feel his boyfriend relax in his embrace. Porthos goes from holding his wrists to simply holding Aramis's wet gloved hands in his own. His decision to not be kissed did not last long.

 

“Besides, I thought you were the one who wanted to play,” he adds against his lips, smiling and teasing. Aramis pouts. Sighs. Anchors himself against Porthos. Slides his hands up his arms until he reaches his neck. Dips his fingers underneath Porthos's scarf and presses wet fingers to the naked skin there.

 

Porthos all but bites his lip out of surprise.

 

“Motherfucker!” Aramis tuts and shakes his head.

 

“That's not a very nice word either.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Aramis.”

 

“We don't swear, Porthos,” he reminds him. He remembers his mother saying the exact same thing to him earlier in the afternoon and he feels even better than he was a few seconds before, snuggled in his boyfriend's arms, taking his sweet revenge.

 

To Aramis, it feels like the only thing that matters right now is staying where he is, freezing wind on his back, but warm arms around his waist. Porthos is glowering but it doesn't last. Aramis's eyes are shining, not from the cold but from happiness (and silliness). He's all bundled up in his winter apparel, so is Porthos. There are so many layers of clothing between the two of them and yet, he'd rather stay outside than go back inside.

 

He may catch a cold from the melting snow he can feel dripping down his back, and yet he could not care less. Aramis's moustache is glistening with water and as he shivers, Porthos _knows_ he has snow melting down his shirt, too.

 

Truth be told, he's forgotten there are other persons in the park. He's not paying attention to anyone so he assumed nobody was paying attention to them as well. He tenses when he hears one of the small children from earlier call out to who he supposes is his mother.

 

“Maman! The two boys are kissing!”

 

Porthos feels Aramis tense as well. He starts to pull back, but Porthos won't have none of it, and his arms tighten, keeping him safely where he is. He can see the woman sitting on a bench behind Aramis. She's helping another child with some sort of toys and she raises her head at the shout.

 

“I've already told you not to shout at strangers, Benjamin.”

 

“But they're kissing. On the _mouth_ ,” he adds, with emphasis.

 

“Papa and I do it, too. It's a normal thing to do if you're in love.”

 

“But you're not a boy.”

 

“No, but I love Papa. It's okay to kiss someone on the mouth if you love them.”

 

“Even if it's another boy?”

 

“Even if it's another boy.”

 

“So I can do it, too?”

 

His mother gives a tinkling laugh at this.

 

“I thought kissing was disgusting?”

 

“Kissing girls, yes, ewwww. But perhaps with boys it's not the same.”

 

“You may be right. But you're far too young to be thinking about this.”

 

“I'm 7!”

 

“Still too young to be kissing anyone, boys or girls.”

 

“When can I, then?”

 

“In about ten years time.”

 

“And then, I can kiss whoever I want?”

 

“As long as you love them and they want you to kiss them, too, yes. You can kiss whoever you like.”

 

Porthos opens his eyes once he realizes he's closed them to contain his rage. It turns out he never needed to. He makes eye contact with the mother who's still smiling at her son. It's sweet how he nods to show he understands what she just told him. He does not pay Porthos or Aramis any more attention as he scampers off to his father.

 

Porthos smiles back.

 

Aramis's head is on his shoulder but he hears the relieved sigh nonetheless. His body had gone rigid for a few minutes until he relaxes once more, hugs Porthos will all his strength.

 

“Hot chocolate?” Porthos suggests, because he knows that if he was ready to confront the woman, Aramis would have suffered and endured it in silence. Nothing has happened, the magic of Christmas perhaps or people finally acquiring some sense and decency. Aramis still needs comfort and he nods eagerly at the idea of the hot beverage.

 

“Merry Christmas,” Porthos tells the woman as they walk by, Aramis's hand clasped in his.

 

“Merry Christmas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faith in humanity: restored.


	6. Christmas (early) evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos, Aramis, more snow.

“We could go to the movies tomorrow.That is, if they don't call you.”

 

“Sure, that sounds like a plan.” Porthos hopes will all his heart his phone will leave him in peace.

 

“Oh, but no! What if they call you while we're _in_ the theatre?” Aramis's face falls in a second and he frowns, tries to come up with another idea. Porthos only shrugs. He's not going to let work interfere with his time with Aramis. No matter how important the job.

 

“We can go anyway. I'll keep it on vibrate.”

 

It's the perfect response to make Aramis happy again. He clutches his coffee cup, lets the hot beverage warm his hands and burn his tongue when he takes a sip.

 

The snow is crisp under their feet, turning to ice, and it's quieter in the streets now. Aramis is in no hurry to go back home. He used to despise the cold, the freezing atmosphere, the brisk wind and everything related to winter when he first moved to France. So far up North, nothing reminded him of home.

 

But winter has its pros he managed to discover over the years. All the shopping he can do: sweaters and hoodies and jackets and boots. And it's Paris, he can never get enough of it.

 

The first few winters, he felt lonely because it was dark so early and he missed home, even though he was glad to be away for a while. He didn't know that many people and then there was Constance, which led to d'Artagnan, which led to Porthos.

 

Winter and cold mornings, cold nights, fall and winter became much better with someone to cuddle with, to hug to stay warm.

 

And there's the snow. He's always dreamed of snow, but in southern Spain, it's not something you encounter often. Snow is the stuff Christmas are made of. In movies anyway. It's enough to turn him into a child today.

 

Aramis gathers some in his hand from the top of the garbage can in which he drops his empty coffee cup. Porthos eyes him with concern, but he knows Aramis is too clever to simply attack like that.

 

“I _think_ if it stays and snows more, tomorrow will even be better.” He crunches it on his glove, forms a imperfect ball with it and throws it as far as he can in front of him. “Perfect.”

 

There's mischief in his eyes as he steps closer to Porthos and accepts the remainder of his hot chocolate. There's the hint of mint he asked the barista for in it.

 

“What movie do you want to see?” Porthos asks to distract his boyfriend from any plotting he might be doing. It's Aramis's turn to shrug.

 

“It doesn't matter. Not something intellectual. Something fun.”

 

“It's Christmas break. There'll be plenty of those.”

 

They took the long way round to come back to their apartment and while Aramis is enumerating all the movies he can think of, Porthos is busy clutching his left hand in his, keeping him right by his side, keeping him from wandering of, keeping him from sliding and falling. For the shopaholic that he is, Aramis certainly does perfer buying pretty stuff rather than what is actually useful.

 

Aramis laughs it off, dumps the second empty coffe cup in a bin and proceeds to kick some snow gathered by the side of the sidewalk.

 

“How old are you again?”

 

“Twenty-seven, why do you ask?”

 

Porthos snorts and kisses the back of Aramis's gloved hand. And then there's a tiny snowflake which flutters about in front of him, quicky followed by more. Aramis can hardly contain his joy and his smile is so wide, it's bound to hurt at some point. Porthos only groans.

 

“You love the snow, Porthos. Don't try to deny it.”

 

“I don't dislike it. But then it turns to mud and it's slippery and it's a nightmare.”

 

“Don't spoil the fun. Look! It's pretty!”

 

Aramis breaks free from his side and enters the park spinning under the falling snow. It's indeed a sight to see, Porthos considers, up until Aramis trips on his own foot and collapses to the ground in a heap of clothing. A strangled shout and giggles follow.

 

“It's freezing!” Aramis exclaims, his coat wet from the dirty grass he fell on. Porthos comes to his rescue, extends one hand to help him up.

 

“It'll be a miracle if you make it to January without break....”

 

A handful of snow cuts him off. He spits some of it and glowers down at Aramis. More snow hit him either in the face or on the chest as his boyfriend hurries to gather as much as he can before his opponent reacts and attacks back.

 

Porthos shakes his head, watches Aramis attempt to stand up at the same time as he crawls further up the small hill to find better ammunition. He's walking where he shouldn't, but it's night and everyone seems to have gone home. There's no one to see what he's doing, no one to tell him to stop and no one to rebuke him.

 

“So what, teddy bear? Are you going to just stand there?” There's so much teasing in these few words that Aramis isn't even trying to avoid a full-on fight.

 

Porthos growls, looks around and gather so much snow half of it ends up being wasted. It transforms into a cloud of white between the two of them. Aramis's aim is definitely better.

 

He's choking with laughter when Porthos launches himself at him instead, pins him to the powdery ground and squashes snow on his face in the same fashion he did an hour earlier. Aramis swallows most of it, keeps on giggling nonetheless.

 

“That's not fair,” he whines after he manages to breathe. Porthos is so much stronger and he cannot move from underneath him, something he loves and looks forwards to. Usually. In other circumstances.

 

“You trash-talked.” Porthos secures Aramis's hands above his head, watches the snowflakes gather on his eyebrows, his beard, his scarf. When he talks his breath fans over his face, icy and misty. Aramis beams up at him.

 

“You were just standing there being pretty. I had to do something.”

“And you're proud of it. Snow-fighting like kids.”

 

Aramis nods vigourously, shakes his legs to break free, gives up because the weight is too much.

 

“Are you proud now?” Porthos growls and Aramis shivers. For two different reasons.

 

First, it's freezing, he can feel the snow melting against the naked skin of his neck and his cheeks hurt from smiling and from the snowflakes.

 

And, second he can hardly see the sky at all. His entire vision is blocked by Porthos's face. Aramis feels like he could drown in the dark eyes staring at him, the lips descending slowly on his ear, ever so slowly. He does not feel like laughing anymore. He swallows thickly

 

“It got you where you are now, did it not?”

 

Porthos growls again, and Aramis's skin tingles from it. He feels cold lips right underneath his ear and moving down the side of his jaw until they reach his own and withdraw suddenly. For all the anticipation he was building, Aramis whimpers.

 

Porthos kisses him once, fast. He feels Aramis trying to loosen the grip he has on his hands, but he doesn't let go. His other hand clutches his boyfriend's waist, through layers of coats and sweaters.

 

Then he bites lightly on Aramis's bottom lip.

 

“Not so much a teddy bear now, eh?”

 

Aramis appears to have lost his voice. He can only shake his head, raise it to try to reach Porthos's mouth once more. He grants him that and it's almost as if Aramis assaults him. In his surprise, Porthos lets go of his hands which suddenly shoot up, circle Porthos's neck and bring him back down again.

 

Aramis is almost crushed by his boyfriend, no restraint and no will to be careful. He kisses him with all his might, he kisses him long and slow and not sweet at all. He kisses him for the whole world to see because tonight he doesn't care. The only thing that matter is Porthos and when they break apart, Aramis isn't cold at all.

 

“Woud _this_ be your revenge?” he asks, breathless. Porthos can feel him smile against his lips. He nips at them, Aramis shivers once more.

 

“Maybe.”

 

“I don't think I'm supposed to be enjoying it this much, then.”

 

Porthos chuckles, rests his entire weight on his boyfriend because he knows Aramis won't complain, and tugs on a loose lock of hair.

 

“It's Christmas. I'm being magnanimous.”

 

Aramis closes his eyes for a second. He wants to remember everything about this moment because for him, it's one of the best he's ever had with Porthos. Being silly and so stupidly in love with his boyfriend and being out in public to show it.

 

This is not Aramis. He likes the changes. He likes how his life is being rewritten for the best ever since he met Porthos.

He sighs, wriggles and raises his head to kiss him again. Long and deep and slow and when he sighs again, there's so much happiness and delight in it that he can only hold Porthos close, bury his face on his shoulder.

 

And then he sneezes.

 

“Sorry!”

 

“Bless you,” Porthos replies, absolutely not offended. Reluctantly, he moves away from Aramis and kneels in the grass by his side. Aramis sneezes again, three times, like he always does.

 

“We should get you inside before you catch the flu.”

 

Aramis grabs the hand offered and he is propulsed to his feet. Porthos is strong and warm in spite of everything and Aramis cannot help but hug him once more.

 

“See? You _are_ a teddy bear. _My_ teddy bear.”


	7. Christmas evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A book, an annoying father and an unexpected surprise.

As predicted earlier, there are clothes hanging in front of the radiator, left to dry. It's almost too warm in the appartment, compared to the freezing atmosphere outside. Aramis is wrapped in a gigantic hoodie which doesn't belong to him, and Porthos is actually thinking that his boyfriend should just buy larger clothes since he's always stealing Porthos's.

 

Aramis would only say that it's not the same, the actual answer he gave Porthos the first time he teased him about it. Aramis doesn't care about bigger clothes; he cares about Porthos's sweatshirts and tee-shirts. They've become the only homewear he puts on. Porthos even suspects that when Aramis buys him stuff, he's thinking about himself as well. He won't ask. He doesn't want to stir trouble when it comes to Aramis and his insecurities.

 

For now, Porthos is content to vegetate on the couch while his boyfriend skypes with his sister and her children back in Spain. There's a lot of laughter and shrills coming from the bedroom, even with the door half closed. Porthos is all too aware the main regret Aramis had with cancelling the trip was that he wouldn't see his nephew and his niece. They've been talking for at least an hour, and they're not showing any sign of ending the call any time soon.

 

Porthos is flipping through the pages of the book Aramis got him. He can't be bothered to read the text accompanying the pictures so he's simply looking at them. He cannot understand why his boyfriend would think this present was not as good as the one Porthos got him. It's not the same, it's not a trip to see his family or some fancy hotel with room service, massages and hot tubs, but it's still special, as far as Porthos is concerned.

 

There used to be this very fine foster family he stayed with when he was a teenager, people he still keeps in touch with, even though they live on the other side of the country. They were such artists and Porthos would have never believed he would enjoy it so much, not when it was him against the rest of the world.

 

The first museum was a bore, but then, it was full of some really weird and creepy statues. His teenage self was not impressed. The second one, though. Classical statues and amazing paintings, so many colours. He still remembers the first painting he absolutely loved, he has a print of it in the living room, right behind the Christmas tree.

 

He was never an artist himself, but after the museums and the lessons he soon dropped out, he went to camp with the daughter. They grab lunch whenever she's in Paris. She has yet to meet Aramis, but whenever they share pictures on Facebook, she's quick to make as many inappropriate comments as she can. No wonder they got on so well when they were younger. Too bad she lives in another country.

 

The summer camp was great, not because they had art projects or went to visit fantastic Parisian museums and saw world-famous paintings. For once, Porthos felt like he mattered to people who were eager to make him happy and have him belong somewhere. Besides, without this camp, he would have never met Athos, the grumpy cat always sulking in a corner, taking part in activities only after being dragged there. Always reluctantly.

 

Someone Porthos could relate to. Someone he can relate to, even today. Even when he's made peace with his past, when he's moved on and made a decent life for himself. Athos mostly hasn't, but he doesn't appear to mind. They've known each other for more than ten years, enough for Porthos to not worry about him anymore.

 

So really, Porthos doesn't see why Aramis would hesitate to give him this gift. It's a beautiful book, the catalogue of the great exhibit they went to last month. The pictures are as wonderful on the glossy pages as they were hanging on the walls of the Grand Palais, period clothing, eccentric hairstyle, white skin, pretty princes, princesses and queens. It's impossible to choose a favourite.

He carries on flipping through the pages, there's still Spanish gibberish coming from the bedroom. If he raises his head high enough, Porthos can see half of Aramis, who's sprawled on the bed, one calf in the air and his other leg hitting the side of the bed in a steady rhythm. He does more listening than talking.

 

All good things come to an end, though, and a couple of minutes later, the door creaks open and Aramis slips out. He goes to get a glass of water then plops on the carpet, returning Porthos's smile.

 

“I take it they had a good Christmas.” Aramis nods. “Did they receive your presents?”

 

“ _Ours_ ,” he corrects, so quickly he almost cuts Porthos off. “Yes. One more Christmas miracle. They liked them.”

 

“Good. I'm loving your present to me, too, you know.”

 

Aramis beams at him, then crawls closer to take a better look at the pictures. Women in straw hats, ribbons in their hair, flowers, flowing dresses, pastel colours, small children hugging their mother, angels.

 

“Everything all right?” Porthos asks after a while. Aramis is just sitting there, one hand clutching an empty glass and his eyes on the book, but he hasn't said a word, and that's unlike him. He looks up at him and smiles once more, a tight smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

 

“Yes. I miss them, that's all.”

 

“You'll see them soon. February is only two months away.”

 

“Yes, I know.”

 

Porthos runs his fingers through Aramis's wet hair, a soothing gesture as he leans against his touch.

 

“Come here,” he decides, setting the open book on the floor and reaching out to pull Aramis on the couch with him. He ends up half on top of Porthos, head on his chest, hands firmly rabbing his shoulders and one foot resting on the carpet. Porthos hugs him close.

 

They only listen to their breathing for some time. It's quiet, no music for once, blinking lights in one corner of the room. Porthos rubs his back in the same fashion as Aramis's fingers are running patterns on his shouder and on his neck. It makes him shiver once in a while.

 

“This one's a cute one,” Aramis eventually says, his face turned toward the book. Porthos looks down.

 

It's the portrait of a little girl, a princess of some sorts, dressed in a blue dress. She's wearing a blue bonnet and there's a basket of flowers set by her side. She has rosy cheeks and she looks lovely and Porthos marvels at how someone could paint such a vivid picture back in the 18th century.

 

“Yep. She was really talented, wasn't she?” He feels the nod on his chest. He hears the low sigh. He nudges Aramis's shoulder to get his attention. “What's on your mind, 'mis?”

 

Aramis's chewing on his lip when he finally looks up. He looks thoughtful, and for a second, Porthos actually believes he won't tell him anything.

 

“My dad said something earlier, but....it's not...”

 

It takes all of Porthos's self-control not to growl. He's angry because no matter what Aramis's father might think, it's Christmas and there's no valid excuse to ruin the day by saying stuff that would upset his son.

 

On the other hand, he's relieved when Aramis speaks again, doesn't shut him out and shares what's bothering him. Shares things he would have kept to himself in the past, not matter how much they hurt. It hurts to say them out loud, too, but at least it leads to someone helping and supporting him.

 

“He was telling me what they were going to do with Ali and Anna and it was all well until he said that he had better enjoy it because it was unlikely he would have any other grandchildren in the future.”

 

Porthos's answer is a crushing hug and a bruising kiss. Aramis's cheeks are flushed when they part.

 

“How can he be so sure?”

 

“Isn't it obvious?”

 

Porthos frowns, shakes him a little. Aramis sinks against him once more, gathers his boyfriend's sweater in his fists and hangs there.

 

“Just because you come home complaining that you work with a bunch of crazy and immature kids who make your life hell does not mean you won't one day show up with twelve of your own on your parents' doorstep. I'd like to see the look on your dad's face that day.”

 

Aramis snorts, which reassures Porthos.

 

“Twelve? Isn't that a bit much?”

 

“All right. Eleven, then. To make a football team out of them.”

 

“Who'd be the coach? I can't play even if my life depended on it.”

 

“That's not true. The fact that d'Artagnan stopped all of your kicks last weekend doesn't make you a bad player.”

 

“Just a hopeless one.”

 

“There's always room for improvement.”

 

“And humiliation. God.”

 

“Don't listen to you dad, Aramis,” Porthos says very seriously after a few minutes of silent back-rubbing and hair-soothing. He hates watching Aramis stuggle with his feelings, what he wants, what makes him happy and what his family thinks. “Do whatever you want and to hell with him.”

 

He shouldn't be talking like this, he realizes, when Aramis looks up, surprised. He thinks for a second.

 

“Yes, you're right. To hell with him.”

 

Porthos kisses him again, full of pride and love and the man who's kissing him back, hanging on to his neck as if he's hanging on for dear life, it's the only person he wants to make happy in the world tonight. The only one he wants to focus on, the only one he wants to cherish and spoil.

It seems that they stay like that for ever. Aramis feels like a fool for letting his father's words cut at hime like that when he's all too aware that it's _his_ life and he's the only one who gets to decide what he'll make of it. He's getting better at voicing his desires to his parents, at standing up for himself in his personal life. It's exhausting sometimes.

 

“Pizza?” he finally suggests. No matter how much chocolate they are and drank today, he's suddenly very hungry. And not for a healthy meal.

 

Aramis slides down to the floor to let Porthos get up. He would never say no to cold pizza leftovers. Aramis closes the book before following Porthos to the kitchen to gather supplies for another carpet picnic.

 

They're settling down, all thoughts of children and annoying fathers forgotten as the discussion is diverted to team sports and championships and players being transferred. Then, there's a knock on the front door.

 

It's almost ten, definitely too late for any visitor. Aramis's face lights up as Porthos goes to open the door.

 

“See? You survived the snow!” he greets a grumpy Athos who's balancing bags and plates on his hands while something tugs on his right wrist. “Holy shit! Where did you get _that_?”

 

“Christmas present,” he mumbles. Porthos makes a serious effort not to laugh at his best friend's outraged and defeated face.

 

The puppy strains against its leash until Porthos picks it up, only to have the small dog pee on him out of excitement.

 

“Sorry,” Athos mutters.

 

“No problem. Aramis is going to _love_ it!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The exhibition and the catalogue refer to the 18th century French female painter Elisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun. She was amazing, such a good painter that Marie-Antoinette made her her official painter. She made a lot of portraits of the queen and her children.


	8. Christmas (late) evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos has a puppy.

Athos brought some leftovers from his Christmas Eve dinner and his Christmas Day lunch with his family. He could not suffer from another dinner or even another night with his parents and left early. Porthos does not mind. Now, on top of cold pizza, they can indulge on foie gras, gingerbread toasts, oysters (that both his friend and his boyfriend let him open unless they want to finish the night in the ER), roasted potatoes, even caramelized duck.

 

It's almost an orgy, as Aramis so aptly put it. No matter how much Athos despises his family, his upbringing, their beliefs and opinions, he has to admit that they know how to plan marvellous meals. Porthos has been eating so many wonderful things that he is certain his stomach will burst at any moment.

 

The unexplained puppy is passed out on Aramis's lap, but not after he covered the entire surface of the appartment three times, ran head first into the kitchen stools, slipped on the tiles and hit a kitchen cabinet, and then tried to chew on a Christmas ornament. Aramis's lap is a safer place.

 

Aramis is delighted, petting it from time to time, mentioning every time it sticks its small tongue out, thus interrupting conversations.

 

Athos recites every single misfortune he's had on the journey back. The people too afraid by a little snow to drive faster than 20 km per hour, the traffic jams on the highway. Because even if it's Christmas Day, the Parisian suburbs are still a nuisance and it's no wonder his car stays in the garage so often.

 

He's drowning his complaints in the fine champagne he brought back for his friends. Porthos enjoys the nice food and the nice drinks Athos shares with them. He's certainly laughing too much at the terrible times he seemed to have with his parents, his grand-parents and his extended family.

 

“And are you going to explain _this_ , at some point?” Porthos asks. He points at the puppy after his best friend is finished with the tale of how his father and his uncle almost started a riot over how to cut some cheese.

 

Athos rolls his eyes and groans.

 

“Yes, he's so _cute_! You're so lucky!” Aramis adds, scratching the dog's belly. It opens a lazy eye, yawns, makes an adorable noise which has Aramis cooeing even more.

 

Athos sighs, empties his glass of champagne, refills it.

 

“I'm not lucky, believe me. How could someone think it was a good idea?”

 

“I was actually asking myself the same question.” Porthos ducks to avoid the piece of bread thrown at him. He's chuckling at Athos's furious expression.

 

“My _brother_ bought it for his own children last month.”

 

“But how come....”

 

“Let me finish,” he replies curtly, and Aramis zips it, cringes. Porthos pats his leg fondly and gives his best friend a stern look. Athos breathes out and returns the look. “Sorry, they've been making so much fun of me for the last two days. Anyway. It turns out my niece, the traitor, has somewhat become allergic to dogs. Which I guess isn't her fault, but still.”

 

Porthos cannot help but laugh once more. He can easily piece together the rest of the story. To make amends, he quickly opens another bottle of wine, a very fine one. They should be ashamed to drink it sitting down on a carpet, to drink it out of plastic cups. They don't even let it breathe beforehand.

 

Aramis is too busy playing with one of the dog toys Athos brought along to notice his glass is being refilled. Porthos actually wonders if he has been eating at all or only marvelling at the dog. His boyfriend's natural and sunny personality is coming to the fore thanks to the pet, he doesn't seem to have a care in the world, and all the bad things that may have happened during the day are forgotten, at least for a while.

 

It seems that he has Athos's family to thank for this, which is a first.

 

“So, yes. By general consensus, it was agreed that the dog would be bestowed upon me.”

 

“But how exactly is it a good idea?” Athos throws a dark look at Porthos.

 

Truth be told, Athos agrees with Aramis, the puppy is cute, but it's only a few months old. It won't become very big, it's not the breed to do this, but it's still a dog, a _living being,_ and it's enough to make him sweat and stress.

 

“As my mother so aptly put it, it will be good for me to have to care for someone else. Even if this someone is a something.”

 

“Hey! It can hear you! You're a beautiful someone, don't worry about what the mean man says,” Aramis whispers to the now-awake puppy, still sleepy-eyed and sniffing the remains of the improvised dinner. Athos rolls his eyes again.

 

“So it really isn't a joke, is it? They're serious about it?” Porthos has to make sure.

 

“Definitely. The only thing they found hilarious was my reaction. Damn them.”

 

“But you know what? For once, and I can't believe I'm actually saying this, but for once I think your family might be right.”

 

Athos cocks his head and stares at Porthos as if he's gone mad or has possibly grown a second head. His best friend seems extremely serious as he eyes the dog stretching its tiny legs and padding to Athos, the one person he knows more than the others in the room.

 

“Are you drunk? How can you be drunker than I am? I feel fine.”

 

“I mean it, Athos. It'll be good for you to have to care for it. To have a schedule, to take it out for walks, to....”

 

“I have a life, thank you very much.”

 

“You work from home and the only times you go out are to go to bars or out with us. That's a fascinating life,” Porthos points out. Aramis nods vigourously to agree. He's desperate to get a hold on the dog once more, but Athos has started to let it lick his fingers, and it'd be outrageous to stop such a remarkable improvement in Athos's behaviour.

 

“Besides, it'll keep you warm at night,” Aramis chirps. Athos looks at him, then down at his new pet, then back at Aramis.

 

“It won't sleep on my bed.”

 

“That's what you're saying tonight. Just you wait. In a few weeks, I bet it'll have changed.”

“A few weeks...I don't know if....”

 

“Don't you dare, Athos!” Aramis suddenly shrills, louder than intended. He manages to startle Porthos and Athos _and_ the dog which scrambles to hide behind its owner's back.

 

“Don't I dare what?”

 

“You cannot abandon him. He's your dog, he's so small and cute and defenseless and helpless and...”

 

“Who said anything about abandoning anyone?”

 

“Well, you said that you didn't know so....,” Aramis stutters.

 

“What I meant is that tonight or in two months, it won't be sleeping on my bed. Ever.”

 

Aramis blushes at his own eagerness and almost apologizes, but Athos only shakes his head, gathers the puppy in his arms and sets it on his lap. Porthos rubs Aramis's arm to comfort him, even if it doesn't stop the blush from blossoming on his cheeks.

 

His boyfriend takes things too heartily, especially when animals are concerned. If it was only up to him, the appartment would be filled with cats and dogs and all sorts of pets. Porthos is both lucky and sad that the place is way too small to accommodate a small zoo and that they work complicated schedules.

 

Aramis's mistake is soon forgiven, though, as they dig in the chocolate cake Athos brought. His parents' cook can really bake wonders, better than what you can eat in most restaurants.

 

Aramis's head then falls on Porthos's shoulder. Lazy and happy as one arm sneaks around his waist, stains the sweater with whipped cream and sugar. He's tired, from lack of sleep, their long walk in the snow, the ton of sugar they had today, and the emotional turmoil his family can put him through.

 

He feels too content, in spite of everything. He sighs when Porthos drops a kiss on top of his head, asks Athos about names for the puppy.

 

“It already has one. Courtesy of my nephews.”

 

Porthos has never met them, but he knows the twins are only a couple of years old. He remembers the endless rants from his best friend when his sister-in-law was pregnant and his parents kept rubbing it in that his younger brother was going to be a father before Athos did. For the sake of the world, both Porthos and Athos had agreed at the time that he was definitely not fit to have offsprings. They haven't changed their opinion on the subject yet.

 

Athos actually cringes, scratches the small dachshund's head.

 

“Sausage.”

 

Aramis promptly bursts out laughing while Porthos only chuckles, and the dog decides to join them by barking. Tiny barks, more adorable than frightening. Athos quietens it at once.

 

“It's only fitting,” Aramis admits once he's done laughing. His shoulders still shake and he dries his eyes with the back of his hand.

 

“Shut up and drink,” Athos replies, thrusting another glass of champagne at him.


	9. The night after Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good things come to an end.

Porthos is stretched out in bed, letting his body warm the cold sheets. Hands behind his head, cushioned on the pillow. There's a small lamp glowing on the bedside table. The shutters will stay open because watching the pretty snow is more important than blocking the outside lights. And he knows, he just _knows,_ that his phone will wake him before the end of the night. It has to. He's been too lucky so far and it's snowing too much. Much more than they're used to.

 

For now, he's content to observe Aramis, all drowsy that he is. His boyfriend is half-brushing his teeth, half-discussing how excited he is that Athos gets to have a dog and they'll probably see a lot of the pet in the future.

 

They offered him to stay and sleep on the couch, but the offer was declined. Athos has probably had too much social interaction with his family and he was eager to have some time for himself.

 

After what seems to be an incredible feat, Aramis is finally done and changes into the stupid but nevertheless cute tee-shirt Athos gave him hours ago. It's giant, way too big for him, probably intended for someone the size of Porthos. Aramis will make sure his boyfriend wears it in the coming days before claiming it once more.

 

There's a giant Christmas tree on it, all green and red. It's cheesy, but it suits Aramis and Porthos likes how Athos figured him so well to gift it to him.

 

“You look like a Christmas present,” Porthos decides. He can see Aramis's reflection grin at him in the mirror.

 

He whirls around, stumbles and catches himself on the wardrobe.

 

“Tipsy?”

 

“A little, yes.” He giggles like a teenager, ruffles his hair before launching himself beside Porthos. He's sprawled on the bedcover, his head almost on Porthos's chest, arms flung by his sides, one dangling from the bed. Porthos groans at the added weight.

 

“Don't break me.”

 

“I wouldn't! I couldn't. You're unbreakable.” Aramis raises his head, blows out the hair on his eyes and smiles dreamily. Porthos strokes his back which has his boyfriend making a sound close to a purr in response.

 

Porthos is so tired, they haven't done much today and yet he feels exhausted. But he doesn't want to go to sleep. Not now. Not too soon.

 

“What is it?” he eventually asks after they've been silent for long minutes. Aramis is still smiling up at him, even if he's changed positions and is rather curled by Porthos's side, one arm draped around his waist. He has still to join him under the blanket.

 

Porthos can feel his boyfriend's head shake somewhere under his arm. Aramis's fingers lazily run over the bedcover. Porthos can feel it on his skin nevertheless.

 

“I was wondering how unbreakable you are, that's all.” Porthos snorts.

 

“Quite a lot, I can assure. There's no need for testing.”

 

“I know that, but....”

 

And then out of the blue, tipsy so playful Aramis springs under the blanket and proceeds to tickle him so much, it actually knocks Porthos's breath out.

 

There are a lot of kicks, they destroy the neatly made bed, pillows are thrown to the floor and Porthos thinks he does knee his boyfriend in the crotch, but it doesn't stop Aramis's attacks. He's laughing, enjoying his surprising but certainly genius experiment.

 

“You are a menace,” Porthos says when he's finally managed to secure Aramis's hands in his own. His legs are preventing his boyfriends' from moving, he's all but pinned to the mattress.

 

Porthos is stuggling to breathe, his sides hurt. Aramis is catching his breath, his chest heaving every time he breathes out. He looks so proud of himself, even if he cannot quite focus on anything.

 

“So you are not _that_ unbreakable after all.”

 

“You used unfair weapons.”

 

“Whatever works to achieve my goal.” Aramis winks, breathes in and out. Porthos tightens his hold on his hands, lowers his head.

 

“And that would be...?”

 

“You know what it is.”

 

Aramis finds some strength to raise his head at the same time as Portho collapses on top of him. Aramis misses his boyfriend's mouth, his lips land on his cheek, but there's no time to make fun of him. His second try gets him what he wants, and Porthos lets go of his hands.

 

Aramis puts them flush on Porthos's naked chest. It might just be the ghost feeling of the tickles which makes him shiver. His boyfriend is more gentle this time around, and his fingers are like silk. It's enough of a distraction for Aramis to push him back until Porthos is on his back and he's straddling his hips.

 

“Still liking your Christmas present?”

 

“Absolutely.”

 

“Want to unwrap it?”

 

Porthos has to snort as Aramis wriggles his eyebrows. He likes tipsy Aramis. Tipsy Aramis does and says things that normal Aramis would consider twice before hesitantly doing them. Porthos knows normal Aramis has been doing more and more things that used to make him uncomfortable, and he cannot not feel proud of him for it. Tipsy Aramis is hilarious, though.

 

Porthos growls low in his throat, which is enough for his boyfriend to take off his shirt. It lands on the floor, joining the rest of their clothes previously discarded there.

 

Aramis leans forward, sighs and even whimpers a little as Porthos's hands settle on his lower back.

 

“Porthos?” he asks, their noses almost touching, their lips barely brushing.

 

“Yeah?” One small kiss.

 

“I had an excellent day.” Another kiss.

“So did I.” One peck on the lips.

 

“Thanks to you.” Aramis's lips brush down the side of Porthos's jaw.

 

“And you too.” Aramis's lips suck on Porthos's neck.

 

His hands are so hot against Aramis's back, he can literally feel all his muscles relax at the touch. Aramis shifts his legs to slightly change his position and Porthos groans. There's a wicked smile on his boyfriend's face that he cannot see.

 

“We make a great team,” Aramis decides, hands roaming Porthos's arms and chest, mouth hot and wet all over his shoulder.

 

“We're the best,” Porthos agrees, groans again and in a more gentle movement, turns them around so that Aramis is on his back. He whines at the loss of kissable skin, anchor his hands around Porthos's neck, pushes him down and buries his face in the crook of his neck.

 

“I'm really happy right now.” It's only a sigh, warm against flushed skin. It makes Porthos shudder and he has to stop Aramis so he can see his face and give him a proper kiss. Aramis hums against his mouth, his fingers grab locks of dark hair, tug on them.

 

Aramis seems to have sobered up when they part. There's still a dreamy look in his eyes but he breaks the moment by biting lightly on Porthos's lip. Porthos bites right back, soothes it with a deep kiss.

 

“It may be cheesy but I want all my Christmases to be like today,” Aramis confesses, his voice husky yet firm.

 

“You can count on it.”


	10. Early call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos has to wake up.

_4.14 am_

 

It's the time Porthos can read on the alarm clock. It's the time he can read on his phone.

 

The light is too bright in the dark night.

 

He groans, grumbles, closes his eyes, rubs them.

 

Aramis shifts by his side, tightens his hold on his arm.

 

Ever so gently, Porthos disentangles himself, tucks Aramis in so he doesn't get cold.

 

The phone is still vibrating in his hand, flashing the number he didn't want to hear from.   
  


He's exhausted, a bit hungover.

 

“Half an hour,” Porthos mumbles into the phone as he attempts to put clothes on without waking up his boyfriend.

 

“Twenty minutes,” his Captain replies.

 

Porthos sighs, agrees.

 

He writes a quick note for Aramis, tells him to call Athos in the morning, to meet him for a walk, to show him how to care for a dog.

 

He grabs some chocolate cake for the road and goes outside to face the dreaded snow.


End file.
